


Awkwardness and Pain

by Spyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunk John Trope, First Kiss, Fix-It, Idiots in Love, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Third Eye Blind - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-11-16 19:52:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11259807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spyre/pseuds/Spyre
Summary: John’s knees went weak. He braced his sweaty hands on the surface of the desk, “He’s alive?”“So you’ve said,” Mycroft prevaricated.“No!” John shouted, and then whispered in a shaking timbre, “You say it. You tell me. Tell me the truth. Is Sherlock alive?”***Post-Reichenbach. Awkwardness. Angst. Anger. A bit of madness. A feel good Johnlock ending, promise! And no, John does not have sex with Anderson in this fic. Rest assured.





	1. Grumpy Gift Shop Owners

"Anderson?" John could hear the slur in his own voice as he staggered against the brick face of a gift shop on Baker Street. He would've taken a cab from the pub but had lost his wallet somewhere. He couldn't seem to keep track of things since... since the Fall.  
  
"Yes... It's me," Anderson replied, stepping from the shadows into the streetlight. He was wearing a high-collared trench coat, and his hair was longer than John had ever seen it. It had been eight months since Sherlock's suicide. That had been the last time he'd seen Anderson... at the funeral.  
  
John shivered once and hard, realizing he had lost his coat, too. Then it clicked. His wallet was in his coat. And his coat was... "Bloody hell," he cursed through chattering teeth, "What're you doing here?"  
  
"I couldn't sleep," the forensics flunky (as Sherlock had once called him) answered in a less than pretentious tone. He actually sounded... quite subdued, "You going home alone?"  
  
John looked around him comically, as if searching for an invisible date. Upon seeing no one, he shrugged and shivered again, "Looks like."  
  
"Where's your coat?" The taller man asked, slow to catch on. Sherlock would have deduced right away that John had lost it, along with his wallet...

"Oh, bloody hell," John cursed yet again when he realized what else had been in his jacket, "My keys! My bloody, fucking KEYS!" He shouted this last bit so loud that it echoed down the street.  
  
Anderson stared.  
  
"AND... And you know what?! Mrs. Hudson... is gone... TO HER SISTER'S!" John kicked the door of the gift shop repeatedly. A light came on upstairs.  
  
"Um, well, John... how about I let you in, then?" Anderson offered soothingly, glancing nervously up to the lit window where the lace curtains began to move, "Come on, with me now before you end up in the back of a police car..."  
  
It took John too long to register what Anderson had specifically said, but he did finally see the importance of moving along... as in following Anderson's jogging sillouhette farther down Baker Street and away from grumpy gift shop owners.  
  
In the quasi-darkness of the London streets, strange lights and shadows cast by the electric night, John's inebriated brain somehow transformed the narrow form of a running Anderson in his black, flapping trench coat. John felt like he was flying across the pavement, weightless and running on his toes, after the quick, rakish shadow of his best friend in the whole world, one Sherlock Holmes.  
  
That was when he smiled. And that was when he crashed into Anderson and they tumbled down onto the sidewalk with no little amount of awkwardness and pain.


	2. Clamoring for a Target

Morning light wrecked into the bedroom through the icy window panes of Sherlock’s old bedroom. The light lanced into John’s brain, hangover at full throttle, creating a deep, gnawing pain that had him grabbing at the bedclothes. A warm body revealed itself under his left hand. He jerked up, and too quickly. The room spun wildly. John took deep, cleansing breaths, slowly blowing the air out through his pursed lips.

Finally, he was able to crack open his eyes. They were crusty with sleep, and he could smell the liquor in his sweat. He must have turned the heat up last night, too hot.

Through the slat of vision that his squinting afforded, he saw the person who shared the bed. A man face-down, dark hair just above the nape of his neck. His cervical vertebra stuck out above the collar of a white t-shirt. For a wicked, torturous instant, his eyes went wide and mouth fell open. He covered a thoughtless whisper behind a sweaty palm that had risen unbidden to his lips, “Sherlock…”

He slammed his eyes shut, squeezed the lids tight. Nausea turned his stomach. Disbelief stopped his heart.

He opened his eyes, looked around the room quickly, desperate for clues that this was a dream. Reality swam like a corona about his skull.

It couldn’t be Sherlock. Sherlock was dead. John lifted the twisted covers off his own body, hoping he was not naked. Socks, yes. Pants, no.

The Sherlock imposter snuffled and groaned quietly, turning in his sleep so that John could see his face.

“OH…. OH, GOD,” John hissed, dropping the covers and stoppering his groan with the side of his fist.

It was Anderson!

He was going to puke. He practically fell out of bed in his haste, tripping over shoes and linens on his way to the toilet. He didn’t have time to shut the door. He collapsed to his knees just in time, head buried in the porcelain throne as his stomach betrayed him.

Time tended to lose meaning when one was puking. John did not know how long he had been in the lou when he heard a familiar, trilling, “Hoo-hoo? John, dear?”

Mrs. Hudson at the bottom of the stairs.

John had the wherewithal to stand, scramble for a pair of balled up pajama bottoms that had been left on the bathroom floor a few days ago.

He darted into the bedroom to wake his impromptu guest, only to find the bed empty. For a second, he wondered if he had hallucinated the whole thing.

Mrs. Hudson was at the top of the stairs. He rushed to the hall, catching her just as she headed into the parlor.

“Oh, hello,” she greeted someone who was apparently on the sofa.

John’s stomach felt like a brick, and his throat burned from the vomit.

He heard Anderson answer, “Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. How are you doing?”

“Well, I was coming to check on John,” she replied, her tone quizzical.

John approached, clearing his voice box with a cough, “Morning.”

“John!” She turned and smiled. Her smile wilted at the edges, “You look absolutely terrible. It’s a good thing Philip saw you home last night.”

“It was no trouble, really,” Anderson interjected.

“Wait, I thought you were at your sister’s last night?” John’s brows furrowed, and his voice sounded horribly loud and felt agonizingly visceral.

“John, I can deduce a few things on my own. I came in on a morning train. And I thought you had to be at the clinic…”

John closed his eyes against another wave of nausea, “They dismissed me.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

“Oh, what are you going to do? A different clinic, I suspect?”

John made a noncommittal humming sound, afraid to form sentences.

Mrs. Hudson approached him and placed a consoling hand at the crook of his arm, “I’m going to turn down the heat, and leave you two alone. Got to pop down for some groceries, too. D’you need anything?”

Her pity was almost as nauseating as the hangover. Almost. He dare not shake his head, only murmured, “No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Very much.”

She patted him and bade farewell to Anderson before disappearing down the stairs.

John groaned softly, placing his palms to his temples, “What happened?”

“You lost your wallet and keys and coat last night, so I… you know… let us into the flat.”

Anderson’s nervous, reedy voice was already grating on John’s raw nerves. The Yarder was fully dressed, standing now in front of the sofa. A long, black trench coat was laid over the arm of the sofa.

“Did we…?” John had to ask. He had to know.

Anderson’s eyes rounded like saucers, “No! No, no, no.”

John’s relief at the answer was short-lived as the man looked even more nervous than before.

Anderson amended, “Not exactly.”

John frowned, dropping his hands carefully to his sides, “But… what…why were you…you know… in there?”

Anderson seemed unable to look at him, choosing to stare at his feet instead, “You were pretty insistent… last night…”

John struggled to remember. Anderson had been fully clothed in the bed, but John had been naked. He had brief flashes of memory cartwheel through his mind, nothing clear… except… Anderson’s hand on his cock.

“You were in bad shape,” Anderson supplied.

John’s memory began to melt together, solidifying into something that shocked him senseless. He had called Anderson by Sherlock’s name! His skin suddenly burned hot in mortification. Anderson had stroked him off. John had passed out, calling for Sherlock.

Anderson shifted uncomfortably, glancing up through the fringe of his stringy hair, “Look… I…”

“Just… please…can you leave? Please? Now?” John’s voice was rough as his emotions warred within, rage, self-disgust, embarrassment and a deep abhorrence for Phillip Anderson who had witnessed his deepest secret crawl from its wretched tomb.

“John, I’m sorry,” Anderson spoke quickly.

John’s aching head snapped up as his glare landed solidly on Anderson. Anderson flinched. John balled his hands into two fists, taking a few steps as if he were about to throttle the man. Anderson jumped and scuttled out of reach. John barked harsh, angry orders, “Get out! Get the hell out of our flat! GO!”

Anderson snatched his coat up and circumvented John, trying not to run, exactly, but leaving with great haste. He did not look back.

John’s rage ballooned outward, clamoring for a target. It was then that he spotted Sherlock’s violin, and he wanted nothing more than to see it smashed to pieces. And that’s just what he did.

The strings and lacquered shards sliced his hands up, cracking to pieces even as his heart did the same, splintering, dying in torturous fury.

He struggled to breathe. Had he been screaming? Cold sweat covered him, causing him to shiver despite the heat of the flat. His vision went cloudy. Tears? And then clarity.

John stood numb in 221B Baker Street, staring, unseeing. Oh, god. What had he done?


	3. Tuning Peg

The floor creaked in the kitchen. John looked up, feeling empty, distant from his body.

There, standing on the linoleum with his hands in the pockets of his black trousers, was Sherlock Holmes. He was wearing a crisp, collared shirt, a bit too tight as he liked them. His hair was perfect. His eyes sparkled, and his mouth was crooked as if John had done something amusing. He stood there as if he'd seen the whole thing. Sherlock's lack of reaction was astounding, and unsettling.

“Where have you been?” John asked with a flat voice, drinking in every detail of his dead friend.

Sherlock did not immediately answer. He pulled his hands from his pockets and strode up to John, kicking a piece of the violin out of the way. Pieces crunched softly under his shiny, black dress shoes.

John’s heart squeezed to see the destruction. He looked up from the ground as Sherlock now stood in front of him.

“I let Anderson see,” John’s voice was tremulous and laden with disappointment.

Sherlock stood straight and lean before him, the light from the winter sun playing across his face. His skin was flawless. He seemed to be waiting for John to say something or do something interesting. John took a deep breath, the smell of Sherlock filled his nasal passages, the branches of his lungs and the folds of his mind. He closed his eyes, “Miss you.”

He exhaled, and the breath shook as if it had been wrung unwillingly from him.

He jerked sharply as he felt fingers caress his face.

His eyes popped open in surprise, breath arrested, but he was alone.

He looked around at the mess and, as if on autopilot, walked to the closet in order to retrieve the broom. He swept up the detritus mechanically, making a small pile on the carpet. He hunted for pieces in the chairs, under the tables, picked them up and, soon enough, there was a mound of wood and metal that had once been a priceless instrument. His vision blurred again, and he saw Sherlock’s bloody body on the pavement.

He sat down hard in his chair, one hand hanging onto the broom like a scepter, its end planted in the carpet. He felt the tear tracks on his face go cold, the small cuts in his hand go hot, and felt his stomach turn.

He was on his knees in the bathroom again, dry heaving into the toilet.

In the parlor, there were a few small pieces John had missed. One disembodied tuning peg lay on the floor, hidden by a pile of magazines. Next to it lay a folded note that had been waiting inside the body of the violin. On the paper, in a black, spidery script, it said:

_Look no further, John. -SH_

 


	4. Certain Hazards

It was a little over a week later that John packed his things for moving. He had to leave Baker Street. He had not hallucinated again. The fear that he would see the apparition was laced with the sad desire for its return. The experience had changed something for John, had forced him to acknowledge how much Sherlock’s loss had really affected him. That acceptance had been paramount to climbing his way out of the abyss.

The first therapy session he’d attended last Wednesday had proven useful. His therapist had asked if living in the flat had become a problem, an emotional “road block”. John considered it. It was definitely like living in a requiem. And so, the decision was made to move out.

His bedroom was already condensed into two large boxes, two small boxes, and a sea bag. He perused the rest of the flat for any other items that might belong to him. It was a near physical effort to prevent himself from becoming waylaid by memories and keep productive.

He stared at the small cardboard box sitting on the desk in the living room. Inside was a trash bag. In the trash bag was the smashed violin. He hadn’t had the heart to throw it away.

He scanned the space, his hands on his hips, mentally preparing himself to leave. Something glinted on the floor, half-hidden by a stack of magazines, _Guns & Ammo_ to be precise. He squatted down, and reached out to touch his finding. It was the flat, turny thing from the head of the violin. He didn’t know the technical name for it. He squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Oh, John! It looks like you’ve been busy,” Mrs. Hudson stepped into the flat, hands clasped together at her chest.

John stood, palming the tuning peg. He pivoted to face her, schooling his face into a pleasant blankness.

Mrs. Hudson hadn’t noticed the absence of Sherlock’s violin. John had hidden the evidence in his closet, and had only taken it out today. He still wasn’t sure what to do with it. He felt like he was hiding the body of a murder victim, which was silly, but he couldn’t help the lead feeling of guilt in is gut.

“Yes, just about finished. Just getting the last bits and pieces,” he winced inwardly as he realized what he’d unthinkingly said.

“You know, John, I feel I must confess something,” Mrs. Hudson wrung her thin hands together. John swallowed, forcing his eyes not to glance at the box on the desk. Had she seen?

Mrs. Hudson spoke softly, “Mycroft… well, John he’s paid for everything.”

John was silent a moment while the new information registered. After a short stretch of silence, he spoke, “That’s why you haven’t been cashing my checks.”

She nodded a few times, slow, “I’m afraid so.”

“Here I just thought you were independently wealthy and feeling sorry for me,” John tried half-heartedly at the joke.

Mrs. Hudson, to his surprise, did not seem to get the joke. She just nodded some more, and replied with the utmost conviction, “Well, I am and I do, but I thought you should know it’s been him. I tried refusing him. I did. But the funds are just… there, you know?” She shrugged helplessly.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, for telling me,” he said as he gave a weak smile.

“You always have a home here, John. Okay?”

John conceded and a brief hug was shared between them before she fled the room. She had tears perched on the brim of her too-wide eyes. He turned away so he wouldn’t see her disappear.

John’s chin dropped to his chest and he pinched the bridge of his nose. The tuning peg was sweaty in his hand. He gripped it tightly as he took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, he saw a folded slip of paper on the floor. Brows furrowed, he bent down and picked it up. A tiny splinter of wood felt out of it.

Still holding the tuning peg in one hand, he cracked open the paper, and read the note. And again. And again. Again until he felt an hour had passed. His heart was thudding hard in his chest, as if he’d been in a race. His eyes could not seem to focus on anything but the note. He looked wildly about, a blur. Then back to the note.

_Look no further, John. -SH_

His hand shook, and he sat down hard on the floor.

“Nope,” he heard himself say. He clutched at the sides of his head. Note in one hand, violin shard in the other, “No, don’t do this.”

His voice was wobbly but strict. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Do what?” a baritone voice answered from the black leather chair.

John refused to look. He was not going to entertain the hallucination. But he had to know if the note was real. How could he do that?

“John? Don’t do what?” the question from his dead friend was too much.

He dropped his hands to look over at Sherlock. John hissed, “Hope. I won’t do it. I can’t do it.” He shook his head to himself. Sherlock was seated in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. He was impeccably dressed and cradling his violin.

Sherlock’s tiny smile was sly. It infuriated John.

John lifted from his seated position to his knees. He waved the note at Sherlock, “What is this?!”

“Please, John. You can do better than that,” Sherlock’s scoffing tone needled the last vestiges of John’s patience. Sherlock plucked annoyingly at the stringed instrument, a repeated note that grated John’s nerves.

“STOP! I’ll smash it again! I will!” John stood, fists like two hammers at his sides, ready to destroy.

Sherlock did not react to the offered violence. His laser-like gaze simply accepted the fire from John’s glare. Sherlock seemed to consider him a moment before speaking.

“Look no further, John,” Sherlock intoned, a spooky look filling his eyes. They seemed to be lit from within. Sherlock held the violin straight out to him, as if offering it for inspection. He cocked his head to the side, willing John to look closer at the beloved instrument.

There was the sound of a throat clearing from the entry behind him. He swirled. There, standing in their flat, was Mycroft Holmes.

John’s blood was still up, making his skin feel tight and hot. He turned back to Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock, of course, was not there. John looked back to Mycroft as if he, too, would vanish. He was still there.

John approached, wordless. He stared hard at Mycroft. He reached out and prodded the gray lapel. Solid enough.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but did not remark on John’s odd behavior, “Your landlady informed me of your departure.”

“She told me what you’ve done for us,” John replied, emotion draining from him, leaving him exhausted, empty. He stepped away from Sherlock’s brother, walked away to the box on the desk and set the note and the piece of violin inside.

He was afraid to mention the note. Maybe it wasn’t real, either. He wondered what the note meant. His mind jumped through various possibilities in the span of a few seconds. Did it mean to give up hope? Did it mean to lay low? Was it a clue? Why was it in the violin? When had Sherlock put it there? Was the fact that it had been in the violin important? What the actual fuck was going on?

Mycroft stepped further into the flat, casting his glance about. Though he’d had the place bugged to the gills, he would not miss the opportunity to look for himself. Because of his surveillance devices, he knew just about everything that took place in these walls. Thankfully, John had been too preoccupied to do any checks.

“Mycroft, I appreciate what you’ve done, but why are you here?” John faced Mycroft once more, now crossing his arms.

“I know enough about you, Doctor Watson, to know that you will not accept charity.”

“You’re right,” John’s voice was cold fire.

Mycroft continued to speak as if John had not spoken, “But perhaps a position as a field surgeon would be considered, as a gesture of good will. And before you refuse outright, the position was not made for you. The position has recently been vacated, and there is most definitely a need to fill it.”

John hesitated at that, “Vacated? You mean the man died, don’t you?”

Mycroft’s shrug reminded John of Sherlock. It was elegant, and it could mean anything or nothing, “It is not a position for those unaccustomed to… certain hazards.”

John was stunned to find himself actually mulling it over in his mind. He was further surprised to realize how badly he wanted to accept the offer.

“I’ll think about it,” is what he said.

Mycroft looked smug, “That is all I ask. Anthea will contact you with the details.”


	5. Chambers Fluttering, Ineffectual

John stood uncertainly in the specialty shop, holding the small box of debris as if it were about to launch itself free from his arms. The small, thin woman approached him from behind the counter. Expensive stringed instruments were displayed everywhere, though not crowded. It was more like an art gallery than a music store, complete with individual spot lights and bronze plaques etched with information mounted next to the beautiful instruments.

The woman was in her late forties, and her olive skin betrayed some Mediterranean descent. She looked as if she belonged in the place, black hair swept in waves around her open face. She was tastefully dressed, but managed to look exotic. John would have turned the charm on, once upon a time, but all he felt was a jittery sort of anxiety.

He wasn’t sure what he expected out of this visit. He wasn’t sure it was “healthy” to have entertained his impulse to come here.

“You must be John,” she greeted, a warm smile softening her features and making her appear docile and obliging, though the fierce intelligence in her eyes belied her true nature. The timidity was an excellent facade that would serve her well in sales, “I am Moira. We spoke on the phone.”

Instead of shaking her hand, he gave a miniature bow and an apologetic smile, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Happy to! How could I not?” she let her gaze fall to the box, “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

She gestured gracefully to the room beyond a set of curtains in the far wall. She ushered him in, and he set the box carefully down on the large work table. The place smelled of lacquer, varnish, wood dust and solder.

It was a pleasant smell, a productive smell. John cleared his throat.

“May I?” she asked as she approached, and he realized that he was still clinging to the box.

He gave a startled half-laugh, let go, and stepped away. She quickly filled the void, opening the flaps of the box, parting the mouth of the plastic bag inside.

Her intelligent, dark eyes scanned the pieces. Her fingertips touched and poked for only a few seconds before her gaze lifted to meet his. John could feel himself sweat. He touched his upper lip. The smile at her mouth was gentle.

“It is definitely not a Stradivarius. I can identify the make, though, with time.”

“It’s a fake?” he asked in a voice that was hushed and full of an emotion he had yet to understand.

“It is a reproduction, a high quality reproduction, but a reproduction nonetheless…” she informed, trying to gauge his reaction.

John’s heart couldn’t seem to beat properly, the chambers fluttering, ineffectual. He felt lightheaded.

Moira’s eyes rounded as she saw the color drain from John’s face. She placed a hand on his forearm, and spoke with some authority, “I think you should sit down.”

How much time passed, John could not be sure. He sat in an antique chair, soft with fine upholstery and studded with rare detail. John’s hands covered his face as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

A kind voice interrupted his introspection, “Here. Some water for you.”

John looked up, accepting the cup with a surge of regret, “I’m sorry. Thank you.”

He took a large, calming gulp of the cold water. He swallowed the trembling with it.

Her smile sparkled suddenly, and she watched him with some curiosity, “Please, no need to apologize. It is good news, isn’t it? That it wasn’t real?”

He nodded in a vague sort of way, and replied, “I guess it is…” -- but the possible implications were so enormous that John felt anger and fear germinate at once in his stomach.

It hadn’t been real. It had been fake.

_Look no further, John. -SH_

THE BASTARD! If it was true, if it had all been a ruse, John would murder the man himself.

The ice water seemed to burn his throat. Oh, shit. It wasn’t the ice water. Tears threatened to mount at the edges of his eyelids. He cleared his throat and looked down into the cup. He almost strangled on the rage.

“Thank you for everything,” he spoke, forcing himself to feel nothing. He called on his military bearing, and stuffed the rampaging thoughts to the back of his mind. He stood, and handed the glass back to her. His smile was tight and small.

“You are welcome any time,” her shy smile morphed into something fine and inviting.

He found his smile grew a bit more, and found it easier to breathe.

John sat in the cab with the box beside him. He read the screen on his phone. Anthea had sent him an attachment regarding the position as a field surgeon. He texted her back, requesting Mycroft’s location. She replied within the minute, and John repeated the address to the cabbie.

The Diogenese Club.

 


	6. To Be Burned

When John arrived at the exclusive establishment, he had expected some kind of resistance, maybe even a refusal by staff for Mycroft’s audience. John was ushered kindly enough to Mycroft. He stepped into the large and open room that he had come to mentally call a lair.

Mycroft was seated behind his desk. John did a quick sweep of the lair with his eyes, and noticed the two, well-dressed men standing quietly to either side of the chaise. They were obviously bodyguards of some sort. He gave a mirthless half-laugh.

“Dr. Watson, please enlighten me. What do you find so very amusing?”

“You.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling.

John shook his head once, jerking a thumb pointedly over his shoulder at the hired muscle, “I figured you’d just have one of these guys for little, old me. Definitely not two.”

“Precautionary, I assure you.”

“Oh, sure. I’m just flattered, is all. Do you really want to have this conversation in front of them?”

Mycroft lowered his chin, looking up at John who approached with two calm steps.

“It depends on your intentions.”

“Can’t you, I dunno, just deduce it?”

“I have better things to do than to cater to your paranoia. The fact that your grip on reality is precarious at best? Well, that warrants its own considerations, does it not?”

John shut his mouth, jaw clenched. He swallowed, squeezed his fists so tightly that they sweated and cramped.

“He’s alive. I know it,” John’s voice had gone thick with emotion without his permission.

“You do, do you? You know that for a fact?”

Mycroft managed to look amused as well as bored. How did he do that? John’s frustration gave way to a calm deadliness. Mycroft’s smile was a dark thing that provoked John’s rage like nothing else.

“Yes,” John hissed. He took a deep breath and stared at that haughty face, hated it. Hate would not get him answers, though. He let go of his rage with his exhalation. He unfurled his hands with great effort, "We need to talk... please.”

Mycroft seemed to go utterly still, as if his life-force had vacated for the moment. John held his breath.

“As you wish,” Mycroft stated, as if coming back to life, giving a nod to the guards. They left, shutting the door behind them. John was pretty sure they remained outside.

John closed the distance between him and the front of the grand desk. He dropped his voice to a hushed tone, “He left a note in his violin. I… found it.”

Mycroft’s face did not give away his true thoughts. He seemed to make a quick, calculating decision, “That was rather stupid of him.”

John’s knees went weak. He braced his sweaty hands on the surface of the desk, “He’s alive?”

“So you’ve said,” Mycroft prevaricated.

“No!” John shouted, and then whispered in a shaking timbre, “You say it. You tell me. Tell me the truth. Is Sherlock alive?”

The flinted steel in Mycroft’s eyes seemed to succumb to something very close to emotion. Regret, perhaps?

“My brother lives.”

John bowed his head, breath coming in great draughts. The world swirled. His blood went to his feet.

Even now, almost six hours after his confrontation with Mycroft, John was in shock. Numb, and still falling.

John stood in 221B Baker street, watching the fire grow. He stood before the hearth, trying to parse through his situation.

Mycroft had not even tried to deny it. It could have been the way John had seemed to fill the room with his presence, or that it was not overly inconvenient for him to admit to Sherlock’s heinous deceit.

“Why?” he had demanded in a growl, fists clenched, muscles tense across his compact form, as if he were a spring ready to fly.

“I would like to say it was simply to dismantle Moriarty’s network, but that would be doing you an incredible disservice.”

John frowned into the now bright and happy light of the fire of 221B, remembering what had come next with such detail that he shuddered.

Mycroft’s voice was clear and disdainful, “My brother’s extremely inconvenient love for you, Doctor Watson, is something I could not anticipate.”

“Love?” John all but laughed, eyes sparkling with incredulity. Sherlock did not love anything but the work. “We are talking about your brother, right?”

Mycroft looked grimmer, older, lowering his chin and his eyes, “It seems despite my efforts, I have failed my brother on all counts.”

For some reason, John felt there was a lot more that Mycroft was not telling him. But that wasn’t anything new. John cocked his head the side, realization hitting him with full force, and disbelief blossoming on his face, “You’re serious.”

“Deadly serious. Sherlock died to protect you.”

“He’s not dead.”

“No,” sighed Mycroft, as if repeating himself was physically painful.

“Moriarty?”

“Had assassins trained on you. If Sherlock hadn’t done a convincing job of it, well… Even you, with your limited faculties, may be able to infer such consequences.”

John sucked in a deep breath and held it until his heart hammered and his fingers numbed. He pulled himself out of the memory with physical effort. He turned from the fire and let his attention land on the mobile phone that was perched on the in-table next to his chair.

It was a flip phone. For one call. To be burned in the fire afterwards.

No evidence. No set time except it would be tonight, the next twelve hours. He looked outside the windows of the Baker Street flat. The sun had disappeared behind the London skyline, leaving a powder blue and tangerine glow. John’s viscera shivered with a horrible, life-shattering wonder.

Sherlock was alive, and he would speak with him tonight.

The reality, the breadth of it all, was beginning to really sink in. John was disturbed to realize that he resented Sherlock almost as much as he loved him. And that was a whole hell of a lot. His anger was what kept him upright, ready for bear. Tremulous hope, on the other hand, was what kept his heart thudding like a bass line behind his sternum and at the bottom of his throat.

John needed a stiff drink.


	7. Swallowed and Corroded

He must have dozed off. Something woke him. The ice in the tumbler had melted. He had fallen asleep in the chair, glass sitting on his knee. John set the glass aside, and the electronic tittering sound that had woken him repeated in the stillness. The fire had banked down to a few, orange tongues of flame in a bed of scarlet embers.

John stared at the phone, going cold in an instant. He grabbed it, opened it, and held it to his ear. He had been instructed not to use names, “Is it you?”

“I think so,” came the amused but nervous reply and there was no mistaking that voice.

“You bastard! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?! I could throttle you right now!”

Sherlock’s chuckle was warm and it sent a feeling of genuine affection flooding through John. He was so very angry, and so very relieved.

“My apologies…” Sherlock spoke, and he quieted, “I am sorry.”

“You utter cock,” John sighed, eyes closing, head dropping. He cupped the phone close, listening so hard he could hear the soft whoosh of his own blood and the breath of his friend on the other end of the signal, “Our... mutual... acquaintance told me why you did it. I…” -- he cursed softly, and then finished the statement -- “I hate it. Jesus, I thought I hated you, but I don't. I don't. I get it. I get why you did it.”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate, seemed to choose his words carefully, “That means more to me than you can know. I can’t talk long. I want you to continue as if nothing has changed. I will try to come back.”

“But you might not,” John finished for him, anger fading behind a wash of dread.

“An option that warrants little thought.”

“I found your note.”

“Yes. I was informed, and duly chastised,” Sherlock sounded as beligerent as ever. The eerily familiar tone touched a cold place somewhere inside John where no hand could ever go. It was a place he thought too wounded to survive, but there it was, beginning to undergo a momentous thaw.

John cleared his throat and ducked his head a bit, rubbing at his brow as if it would help to find the right words, “He said that you… that you…”

Sherlock was silent while John wrestled with his sense of propriety as well as the alien need to confess.

John continued, concentrating on keeping an even keel, “I need you to know…” – but John felt like he was going to have a panic attack.

He stood abruptly, stomach sinking to his toes as he spoke in a rush, “I need you to know that I do, too. And... just... damnit, you better get your arse back here.”

There, that was easier. Anger was easier.

Sherlock’s tone was unreadable, flat and emotionless, “I shall do my best.”

That one phrase, though, despite its lack of inflection, said worlds. It settled John’s mind and body as if a switch had been flipped. They understood eachother perfectly, and John hadn’t even had to really say anything too revealing. He hadn’t the courage just yet to put into words what he felt for Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock knew it.

Holy hell! Sherlock had all but admitted it to him just now.

John paced, listening to the intense silence between them as if a terribly depressing poem were being recited.

“If you could do me one favor…” Sherlock’s voice was no longer soft, but confident.

“What?”

“Do not work for my brother.”

John clenched his jaw, looking around the flat, eyes settling on the empty leather chair, “Okay.”

“Okay? Just like that? No protest?” Sherlock sounded suspicious.

“No, no protest from me, as long as it means I get to whoop your arse when you come back.”

Sherlock’s surprised inhalation was enough to draw a smile from John.

Sherlock finally answered with a barely suppressed urgency, “I can’t downplay this, the danger in which I find myself. The danger that you face now is much less than it once was. I have seen to it. You have to do your very best not to let on… to anyone.”

John nodded even though he knew Sherlock could not see him. He was still experiencing a bit of shock at the enormity of the moment. “I can’t believe I’m talking to you,” John marveled aloud.

“I... have to go…”

John covered his mouth and the phone with his other hand, staring at Sherlock’s chair, “Right.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“You, too.”

A few, quiet heartbeats passed with nothing but static to tell John that his best friend was still on the line. Sherlock must be far away for such interference to occur during their call. It sounded like a satellite phone, the ones John had used in his army days.

The next sound was an indistinct murmur from his resurrected friend. John strained to hear, eyes closing. Sherlock’s voice was distant, echoing as if he were holding the phone far from his face, “The words they use so lightly... I only feel for you.”

John’s chest seemed to crush in upon itself, breath pushed out of him as if he’d been hit.

The phone signal terminated. _Dramatic twat_ , John thought to himself.

With watery eyes, John stared at the phone only a moment before placing it on top of the fire. He pulled his hand away, feeling his skin burn a little from the heat. He watched the phone melt. He grabbed the poker from its stand and encouraged the progress of the phone’s destruction.

John could not help the dark thought that creeped upon him now, that it would have been better, in some ways, if Sherlock really had been dead. Because now he had hope, and hope would be his undoing.

He cursed into the fire, and felt guilt for the horrible thought. He did not do well with idle time. Idleness swallowed and corroded him as surely as any disease. He would just have to not be idle, then. He would try… for Sherlock. Sherlock had saved him, after all, hadn’t he? The berk.

…

“I want to apologize,” John started, standing unsure on the city sidewalk, looking surreptitiously at the Yarder he had avoided for the past several months.

“I know you do,” Anderson responded, hands deep in the pockets of his coat. He had let his facial hair grow as well as the hair on his head. He looked wan, and jumpy. He could not hold John’s eyes for too long, but he continued despite his apparent anxiety, “I can't let you. It was me who took your jacket. I did it. I've regretted it every minute since.”

John’s jaw dropped, “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Guilt, I suppose.”

“Guilt?! You have a damned funny way of showing it.”

“I know. I know. I had to make an excuse to see you, and you drank way more than I thought you would. I had to know, had to see for myself!”

“See what, EXACTLY?!”

“John, I don’t think he’s dead,” Anderson stated carefully but with enough surety that John hesitated.

“What?” John almost choked on his outrage, and a trickle of trepidation. His mind raced. How would he react if Sherlock were actually dead, he wondered. He would sock Anderson in the mouth, is what he would do. John already had been feeling bad about how he’d ended things last time with Anderson, but the weirdo had taken his coat!

Damn. He would have to apologize to Anderson another day.

Anderson did not fall back from the punch, but staggered and cupped his nose.

“Bad timing,” John said, glaring at the other man who was staring at him in horror and pain.

John turned on his heel, and strode away, shoulders hunched. He was filled to the brim with an energy that seemed to crackle about him. He had to move or he would explode with it.

Five months. Seven days. Oh, seven days, already? Okay, another week had passed then. Five months, and a week, since Sherlock’s call.

Spring was in full swing, but today was cold. John strode with a purpose away from Anderson. He felt bad for what he’d done because he knew that Anderson was right.

John rounded the corner in too big of a hurry, crashing into one man and almost bowling over another.

“Jesus, I am sorry! Are you okay?!”

“Quite alright. Quite alright,” the older man assured in a smoker’s rasp, patting his shoulder and waving him off.

John glowered to himself, slowing down. He was lucky he hadn’t knocked them both over. He forced himself to take a deep breath. Sunlight lanced through the trees that grew at regular intervals along the street.

He was full to bursting with tension. He needed a lay. With that thought, his mind shied away from a vague memory of Sherlock in nothing but a sheet. He felt a blush creep up to his ears, and shook his head.

He stutter-stepped to a stop, noticing exactly where he was. He was two streets over from a certain music shop wherein a beautiful woman worked. What had been her name? Mavis? Malorie?

He was walking again before he realized it. He crossed the street and, as he got closer, a plan was forming. He would take her out to coffee on her lunch break.

He would talk to her about buying a new violin, maybe. No, he wouldn’t. That would bring up Sherlock, and this was most definitely not the time to be talking of his former flatmate.

He recalled her petite form, her quick, assessing eyes and her welcoming smile. Moira had been her name! And he would talk of his new position at Redfearn and Ivy, a charitable medical practice that had accepted his application the same day he had submitted it. Something told him she would appreciate the charitable aspect of his new job. Maybe enough to accept a dinner invitation. Maybe more.

He stopped in front of the wide picture window, the display was as tasteful and understated as he remembered it. The glass must be some kind of shatter or burglar resistant material, he thought to himself.

And there she was at the back of the store, arranging a row of expensive looking floral arrangements on the service counter. She was dressed flatteringly in black and yellow. She complimented the sparse decorations that adorned the main display area. It looked like someone had rented out the place. He saw now, in the window, a sign that said the shop could indeed be reserved for special occasions.

Maybe Sherlock would like that, John thought.

And that was all it took.

He put his hands back in his pockets, turned towards the main street, and he walked away.

He’d never been in a long term relationship, hadn’t understood really what drove a man to unending monogamy. That is, until now. John didn’t want to see anyone in his bed but the world’s only consulting detective. His thoughts skirted the details of what that meant. He had vague notions of what he’d like, mostly conjured up, broken images of his pale friend all sweaty and gasping. Other than that, he tried not to think of it.

John had experimented, certainly, in his life. Once while a teenager, once in college and a few quick rendezvous on deployment. He most definitely preferred women, but when it came to his friend? Well, Sherlock Holmes was exceptional in many ways.

The only man he had come close to having these kinds of feelings for had been Major James Sholto, and that had been a disjointed but sincere companionship that John was pretty sure wouldn’t have lasted outside of a combat zone or military base. Well, probably not.

What could he do with the rest of his Saturday, then?

John thought about going to the gym. He’d already been that morning, and after almost five months of daily training, John found himself in better shape than he had been while serving in the army. Pent up sexual frustration did that to a man like Three Continents Watson.

Of course, it wasn’t just the sexual energy that was driving him up the wall. He was well and truly concerned for Sherlock. He had turned Mycroft’s job offer down, and that had been the last he had contact with the man. Either Sherlock would make it home, or he wouldn’t. That had become John’s mantra. So, he had soldiered on.

He had continued to see his therapist every other week. Leaving out, of course, Sherlock’s status as a living human being as opposed to a corpse. At the behest of John, they had been working on his aversion to identifying as anything but straight. Twelve sessions later, and John did not think they had made much progress. He hadn’t experienced a breakthrough, per se`. They had talked about Harry, and her wife. They had talked endlessly about his parents attitude towards homosexuality, his father’s alcoholism, and the shame his catholic school upbringing had programmed into him.

The sessions were exhausting, and aggravating. They just seemed to circumvent. John was more apt to barge right through things, like a bull at a red light. At least, that’s what he liked to think of himself.

He must have been walking for ages. He had planned on getting a cab, but apparently he needed to walk. In fact, he had walked all the way to an intersection at Baker Street.

He had moved out of 221B, of course. John could not have withstood these past months living among Sherlock’s things. Plus, if he had stayed, it would have looked too much like he was waiting for Sherlock to return from the dead.

He now lived in a modest, one-room flat, twenty minutes by tube to Baker Street.

He still had the key, though, to 221.

He stood on the step now, looking up at the knocker below the brass numbers. It hung crooked, and that made John’s mouth twitch upwards at the corners. How he missed his friend, like a phantom limb.

He unlocked the door and let himself in, taking in a breath to call out to Mrs. Hudson. The beautiful spring light made the foyer look enchanted. Golden motes danced in the air.

Before he could call her name, though, a high, heavenly note of music drifted down from upstairs. The vibrato of a violin string being stroked by a bow.

“Sherlock,” John gasped in a hushed voice as he dashed up the stairs in a matter of three seconds. He whirled around the banister and climbed until the bright, happy rectangle of the parlor’s open door came into view. The music stopped.

John could not breathe.

He stepped quickly into the parlor, eyes sweeping to the tall figure who turned to face him.

“You," John breathed, paralyzed with fear and hope, and every weird, unnamed, unrelenting emotion that went along with knowing Sherlock Holmes.


	8. Whoosh-Whoosh

It was Sherlock. There. In the flat, looking at him with wary eyes behind which whirred that singularly remarkable mind.

Sherlock looked like he was going to say something sarcastic, but he closed his mouth upon seeing John’s expression. John registered his friend’s nearly emaciated visage, tan as it was. He raked his eyes over him in his pajamas and dressing gown. The Stradivarius was, of course, intact and held in long, artful fingers along with the bow.  
  
John took a few more steps into the room. Sherlock took a step forward as well, closing the distance between them a little more.  
  
John drank in the sight of his best friend.  
  
Sherlock let him. The detective’s eyes seemed older but shone all the more for it. Their color was almost fluorescent silver-green in the cold glow of the day. Despite his world weary countenance, John doubted he had ever seen anything that had brought such an immediate sense of satisfaction. Maybe a sunrise in Afghanistan had once made him feel this way. Its stark beauty heralded another day alive, another darkness survived. That was Sherlock to John.  
  
Before John could really appreciate the moment, something made him doubt what he was seeing. Sherlock hadn’t spoken. John hadn’t hallucinated Sherlock since he had found the hidden note, but perhaps this was too good to be true.  
  
Sherlock began to look uncomfortable under John’s scrutiny. He pivoted to rest the violin on its stand. He set the bow on the easel, next to a fresh page of sheet music.  
  
John swallowed. His legs felt like jelly. While keeping an eye on Sherlock, he shifted to sit on the coffee table in front of the sofa.  
  
Sherlock put his hands behind his back as if he didn’t know what to do with them.  
  
“Are you really here?” John asked, voice distant to his own ears.  
  
Something passed over Sherlock’s features, as if he remembered something. John somehow knew what Sherlock was thinking, just with that one expression. Mycroft had told him about John’s hallucinations.  
  
“Yes, I am,” Sherlock answered, and the lack of his acerbic wit began to unnerve John. Sherlock looked like he’d aged five years since he’d gone, and John couldn’t be sure from this distance, but he thought he saw some streaks of gray in Sherlock’s hair.  
  
“Come here,” John ordered quietly, afraid to break the moment.  
  
Sherlock almost refused out of principle, but the unblinking skepticism and wonder in his friend’s eyes kept his cynicism at bay. It filled him with uncomfortable sentiment.  
  
He unclasped his hands from behind his back. He was disconcerted to note that his palms were sweaty, and he had to work at keeping his breathing even. He approached John, and John stared not at Sherlock’s face but at Sherlock’s left hand.  
  
John reached out to it. Sherlock reached, too, tentative.  
  
Sherlock’s skin was warm. John’s hand was cold from being outside. Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John’s. He watched as John slumped forward, bowing his head, hiding his face in his free hand. He was trembling, clinging to Sherlock’s grasp as if it were a lifeline.  
  
Sherlock sank to his knees in front of John, and pulled him close. His long arm wrapped around John in a tight ring, fingers digging into the jacket. Sherlock buried his nose into the hair behind John’s ear, and closed his eyes. John’s tears were silent, and he shook.  
  
Sherlock thought he would have rather taken a beating over this. Any day.  
  
“I will spend my life making this up to you,” Sherlock vowed in meaningful tones.

“No,” John insisted with such immediacy that it startled Sherlock.  
  
John looked up, touched a lapel of Sherlock’s dressing gown, and peered into Sherlock’s gaze with such a force of will as to secure every iota of Sherlock's considerable attention, “You will just live, okay? Just be Sherlock Holmes, the best and wisest man I have ever known. That is all you will do, and with me there, too, damnit.”  
  
John frowned and pushed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, a hand wrapping around the back of Sherlock’s neck as if to hold him in place. _Never leave again_ , he thought fiercely but did not say.  
  
He stayed there a moment, as if to detect any resistance from his beloved friend. There was none. In fact, Sherlock seemed pliant and willing... if a little awkward.  
  
After those initial few seconds, John moved his kiss to Sherlock’s temple, breathing in the scent of the other man as if trying to assuage the trembling in his gut.  
  
Such relief saturated him even as his disbelief of their reunion clung to his heart. He swept his thumb across the back of Sherlock’s neck, and placed the next kiss on his cheekbone, and then his cheek.  
  
Through all of this, Sherlock was quiet and still, accepting. His eyes were closed, his respirations even and controlled until, finally, with a suspended breath between them, their lips met.  
  
Their first kiss was not like any other kiss John had experienced at all.  
  
John had many first kisses. Some better than others, of course, but they all shared similar qualities. Warm. Sexual. Thrilling.  
  
This was none of that.  
  
Well, maybe it was warm. Or hot, rather.  
  
Sherlock’s full lips felt hot.  
  
John was only now starting to thaw from the cold, buffeting wind that had accompanied his long walk.  
  
Other than the physical heat, there was no excitement and there was no sexual feeling, per se.

It was like taking a breath long denied.  
  
It was like stepping into warm waters after a frigid day working outside.  
  
It was like there had been a pressure inside his head that had filled up with anger and nonsense. And with the touch of Sherlock’s lips, the pressure suddenly gave way, dissipated and John felt lightheaded.  
  
It was a few seconds before John noticed Sherlock had not returned the kiss. His friend must have sensed his uncertainty, because before he could pull away to question the moment, Sherlock tentatively chased his kiss.   
  
Sherlock shivered once and hard under John’s touch. His breath came tremulous between them, a quivering exhalation from flared nostrils.

Sherlock's brow furrowed as a deluge of intense, inscrutible emotions caused his throat to tighten. In a matter of a minute, the kiss progressed from a formal, reverent meeting of mouths to something just this side of desirous.  
  
They broke apart abruptly, as if niether were ready for the desparate passion that had only just begun to stir beind the chaste kiss. They did not meet eachother’s eyes. Their heads were bent together as if in some secret conversation.  
  
John released Sherlock’s neck and dressing gown. 

Sherlock removed his hands from John’s knees. John did not remember when they had been put there.

The kiss had happened. And now the quiet was thick like a fog in the flat.  
  
John could hear his blood go whoosh-whoosh in his ears.

Sherlock sucked in an audible breath through his parted lips, and held it.


	9. And so it begins.

John cleared his throat, and asked with forced neutrality, “So, when did you get in?”

And that was it. Normalcy returned like a tide let loose upon a shore, dissolving all evidence of change upon its sandy face. Sherlock, strangely enough, seemed to hide a laugh of disbelief behind a throat clearing of his own. He answered after a small hesitation, as if something occurred to him, “This morning. Why didn’t you go in to see the luthier?”

 “The what?” John blinked. The change of topic was too sudden. His mind was still a bit disconnected from the kiss.

 “I followed you. You really should cultivate your situational awareness, John. You plowed straight into me, and then you let me follow you for blocks and blocks. I was too late to see you punch Anderson, unfortunately. I can’t imagine what’s taken so long for you to do it.”

 John shook his head slowly, wiping at the marveling expression that must have showed on his face, “You were the man I bumped into.”

 Sherlock suddenly went serious, “Indeed. So why did you not pursue Moira?”

 John shrugged, not wanting to talk about this at all. He was rubbish at it.

Sherlock did not press the question, but instead, switched tactics, “I have to tell you, make it clear in no uncertain terms, that I wish to keep you... this. Whatever it is, no matter the details. I realize that I have to say it, because I know that if I do not say this now, you will end up marrying some halfwit and leave Baker Street, and the Work. The marriage would be disastrous, of course, considering your penchant for getting yourself into dangerous situations.”

John’s eyes went steely and incredulous at once, “Getting myself into dangerous situations? That was all you!”

 Sherlock waved away the accusation, standing and turning with a dramatic swirl of his dressing gown, “Semantics,” he declared, “Unimportant details that do not invalidate the claim.”

 “Speaking of unimportant details,” John began, feeling now bold from the kiss and from that brief sense of urgency he felt when Sherlock had returned it, “Don’t think I didn’t hear you quoting a 90’s American alternative rock band to me over the phone. Where were you by the way? And how do you know about Third Eye Blind? How does that, at all, meet with your standards of important information?”

 “I was in Montenegro,” Sherlock answered, standing all straight-backed and graceful in his most casual outfit (besides being naked in a sheet), “And I know of the ‘band’ only because of your atrocious habit of singing while bathing.”

 “So I sung it in the shower and you, what, looked it up?”

 “Yes. I illegally downloaded the album in question.”

 John shoved his hands in his pockets, and cocked his head to the side, “And what did you think?”

 “Absolute garbage, really the most uninspiring stuff.”

 John’s satisfied smirk at this statement took a moment for Sherlock to register, and then John responded with a snarky: “Apparently not.”

 “Well... sentiment, you know…” Sherlock muttered, looking anywhere but at John.

A thought sprouted in John’s mind, “Hang on... you illegally downloaded it?”

 “As if I would waste money for… _that_.”

 “You downloaded _illegal_ files onto **_my_** laptop?”

 “I can’t remember if it was yours. What does it matter?” he asked, accompanied by a sigh and a roll of the eyes.

“My laptop _crashed_ , Sherlock. _Malware_ , it said... how often did you download... oh, and  **why** are you smiling?”

“It’s like old times.”

John hesitated, and considered a moment before responding.

“Not _exactly_ like old times,” John corrected, though his doubt skittered across his mind, “Not sure what I’m doing with all of this… you know, new…” And there his vocabulary failed him.

“Well, I do,” Sherlock seemed, in that instant, to be utterly sure of himself.

John raised his eyebrows in rueful surprise, “Oh, you do?”

“Of course I do. I am going to make us tea. I brought some from Kyrgyzstan. I have been wanting to try it.”

Sherlock strode to the kitchen where John now saw a small duffel bag. Sherlock dug into it and pulled out a metal jar.

The rest of the afternoon passed in companionable conversation and many, many cups of tea. Some leaves had traveled a long way, indeed. Sherlock spoke freely, and John did, too. They talked about all of the countries Sherlock had run through, flown through, driven through and a few places not even on a map.

Sherlock seemed to be leaving some things out but what he did share was remarkable. He chose not to go into detail about the worst of it. His aversion to these tales was caused by many things, things Sherlock would have to parse through on his own at some point.

Sherlock’s undercurrent of emotion, though, was what stood out the most to John. Sherlock did his best to sound unaffected, and to anyone else, perhaps the façade would have worked. But John knew Sherlock too well. He tried not to stare at his friend too intensely, tried not to acknowledge in any way that he had seen through the stoic veneer. Sherlock seemed content with that.

John’s curtesy allowed him to relax in increments until they were ensconced in their respective chairs, a new fire dancing at the hearth, and their feet bare between them. A sense of completeness filled 221B to the brim, spilling out onto the street below and setting the world right again.

Only two subjects were silently deemed off limits for the time being. When Sherlock had begun to explain exactly how he had pulled off his fake death, John had shut him down immediately. Sherlock seemed a bit put out, but resolved to tell John at a later date. He thought that given enough time to separate out the emotions, John would appreciate the genius of it. Or maybe he should just let John ask in his own time.

The other topic was skirted quite thoroughly but it was there, the new aspect. It was real and thrumming between them. John’s relief had given way to thrill, and that thrill gave way to contentment. Something that had been tied up inside of him since witnessing Sherlock’s suicide, detangled and eased. John felt a wall of fatigue hit him as he stared at Sherlock some hours later.

He sat low in his red chair, hand curled loosely around an empty tea cup perched on his thigh. He put his other elbow on the arm of chair, and propped his head in his palm. His bare ankles were crossed, legs extended before him.

Sherlock stared at John’s naked toes. They wiggled every now and then during their conversation. When they did, Sherlock assessed John’s expression to see any kind of correlation. The conversation had been steadily thinning, silences protracting at a comfortable rate until now. There was something so very unguarded about John at that moment. Sherlock could not find a memory of John ever being so relaxed, and certainly had never experienced the full weight of this particular expression.

John seemed both sleepy and infatuated with Sherlock’s face. He had started a pattern of observation with such unabashed intensity and familiarity that a pink flush began to creep up Sherlock’s throat. John’s tiny smile grew as the seconds ticked by into minutes.

“Are you blushing?” John finally asked.

“Perfectly normal response, John.”

John made an “mmm” sound behind his smile and just that sound made Sherlock blush deeper. He frowned and stood. He collected his cup of tea and John’s without a word, and hurried into the kitchen.

He stood at the sink, looking down into the empty cups. Why was this beginning to overwhelm him? Nonsense. He felt some nameless tension filling him, and it grew in John’s presence. He had been isolated so long, and now he was only a few steps from the Real John Watson. Mind Palace John Watson paled in comparison.

When Mycroft had detailed John’s hallucinations to him, he could hardly believe it. It meant something to Sherlock, that losing Sherlock had been so very… disruptive for John. Sherlock closed his eyes and bowed his head. He was out of his depth. The impulse to hide alarmed him, and he answered it by straightening his spine, straightening his dressing gown and squaring his jaw. He would address this right now.

He all but marched into the parlor, ready to… he did not know what. He spun to face John, only to find his friend asleep, barely upright on a drooping wrist. Sherlock took in a breath, and sat back down in his chair. He stared at John openly now, studied him. John’s mouth hung open a little, and he would probably drool before too much longer if his head didn’t nod him awake before then.

Sherlock slumped in his chair, hands laced together over his abdomen. He stuck his feet out in front of him, like John. He took in the sight of their bare feet so close. His gaze flicked up to John’s face, so much younger in sleep.

Sherlock scooted his feet closer to John’s until his pinky toe grazed the soft skin of John’s foot. He looked back up to John’s eyes, making sure they were still closed. They were.

Sherlock hesitated, bit at his lower lip, then gently ran his foot along John’s. A silent sort of sigh rolled out of his lungs, and he let his head fall back and his own eyes close. All the ease that had filled the flat now filled him. The taut muscles of his shoulders relaxed and the lines between his brows smoothed.

When Sherlock felt a reciprocating caress of foot, he debated whether or not to even acknowledge it. For a while, they sat in near silence. The crackle and pop of the fire highlighted their newborn intimacy.  Languidly and with heavily lidded eyes, Sherlock finally raised his head and met John’s gaze. It was dark and dreamy, like a man secure in the thought that he had everything he could ever need and then some.

“’S whatever you want,” John murmured.

“And you? What do you want?” Sherlock asked, his baritone just above a rumble, not daring to assume too much. Not wanting to disturb the quiet.

John gave an unconscious lick of his lips, and submitted Sherlock to a full-body, head-to-toe/toe-to-head look over before answering in similar, soft, meaningful tones, “Whaddya got?”

For an answer, Sherlock arched his brows and then gestured silently with both hands to his entire, recumbent form. The gesture said, _Everything before you now._

John’s immediate response to that was a small, wicked smile that could set the walls on fire. It certainly did a number to Sherlock, every bit of him.

Finally, their feet still gliding in tiny movements together, John said, “I’ll take it.”

“Mmm,” is Sherlock’s reply, mimicking John from earlier. They share two small smiles, and it is easy to look into each other’s eyes even as electric warmth runs up from their toes to the rest of their bodies.

And so it begins. And it would be awkward, and there would be pain, but the sum of it all would be good. No, not good. It would be bloody  _fantastic_! And it would be their Life. Finally.

 


End file.
